Bees Mouth - April 2019

April 22nd

Hola! isn’t everything just ticketty-boo? the weather’s peachy, the Mueller report is impeachy, or is it, or who cares? Let horror engulf the faraway shores, here it’s Easter bank holiday and the sun is shining, traffic is tailing back, on the beach a million tribal tattoos stand out proudly against their owners’ angry hot red skin, the roller disco is zooming its’ selfconsciously zany way along the seafront, all is well.. JAZZ NIGHT AT THE BEE’S MOUTH is ready, even if it seems as though you've drained the last drops of happinesses lager from your plastic aggro-proof beaker, to make your circle of bliss complete before the oppressive clouds of normalcy come swarming over the horizon to harsh your vibe too soon, too soon…. if the unfamiliar levels of sunkissed joy are freaking you out and making you mutter darkly about climate change n’ stuff, if you’re feeling like it’s still on but you’re not sure how or where or why, you can rely on Luke “My Captain, O My Captain” Rattenbury (gtr) and Loz “The Real Don Dadda” Thomas (drms) to get you back on the good foot with a rushing torrent of musical good vibes for you to immerse your raggedy self in, aided in some manner by me on bass, while the attendant machine elves of the peerless Bee’s Team wait, shimmering faintly, in the fragrant darkness behind the well-stocked bar, and the flotsam and jetsam of the weekend’s turbulence bob about on the psychic currents outside on the stinking pavement… don’t stay glued to Game of Freakin’ Thrones like an XR protestor glued to Jezza’s railings, don’t be a doubting Thomas, be an eager beaver, come and join us before it’s too late.

April 15th

Are you warm, are you real? Are you just trying to live your best life, beset on all sides by the shitposting of the unrighteous and the quibbling of the pointlessly aggressive regressive and the tediously, incorrigibly woke? Are you in need of the consolations of symmetry and geometry in your life, is Fortuna’s wheel spinning like a comedy beanie worn by Crazy Guggenheim, are you as burdened with Weltschmerz as Frank Butcher on a wet weekend? Let JAZZ NIGHT AT THE BEE’S MOUTH help you iron out the wrinkles in your aura and realign your chakras like some GM-free ducks in a row, courtesy of the network of good vibes spun like a web of silver by those gangstas of hot licks and good grooves Luke “Ghostface Killa” Rattenbury (gtr) and Loz “Inspecta Deck” Thomas (drms), aided in the customary fashion by me on bass, while the perfectly chiselled and well-drilled Bee’s crew under the leadership of their fearless captain Jack Rowan wait to offer you libations of the good stuff….. as the Maybot crawls across Snowdonia with the grace of the Mars Rover in search of another fine mess, Notre Dame bursts into flames like a Gothic Gilet Jaune, Bozza tries to kid us all with another haircut, and Blackpink prepare to reveal themselves as our true masters, it’s time to let them all go hang, get on the good foot and get down to join us, it’ll be very. 

April 8th

Hey kids! What’s that commotion? Is it Ren and Stimpy entering another round of thrilling cross-party negotiations? Is it Jon Snow sliding to the kitchen floor after pulling a whitey at the Ofcom house party? Is it Bojo and Frog face dancing the far-right fandango on a magic no-deal mushroom before an audience of enchanted Brexit bunnyrabbits? Is it Jezza losing his shit to Hava Nagila? Is it hell, Jones, it’s JAZZ NIGHT AT THE BEE’S MOUTH riding out of the West on its golden palomino, ready to give succour to the weak and hope to the afflicted thanks to the incorruptible rigour of those outlaws of good groove and hot licks, Luke “Ten Toes” Rattenbury (gtr) and Loz “Lengman” Thomas (drms), plus me in the role of Sancho Panza on bass, and the superhumanly svelte and accomplished creatures enlisted into the Bee’s Team by their doughty captain, Jack ‘Sparrow’ Rowan, ready to make with the libations of top grade hooch to ease any angst you’re feeling as the Prolonged Period Of Uncertainty lurches into the next inevitable stage of its eternal endgame, kinda edgy and boring at once like binge watching the whole Saw franchise while getting wasted on Bailey’s with all your least favourite people from work, whatever that may be…. listen! The globe is turning, Fortuna’s wheel spins, symmetry and geometry elude us still but the hedgerows are sticky with rising sap, the voice of the chiff chaff is heard once again echoing in the distant woods beyond the edge of town, feather footed through the plashy fen passes the questing vole, it ain’t over til it’s over.

April 1st

Springtime for Bojo and Greasy Reesy-Moggy, winter for Tezza and Jezza? Springtime for Bercow, dolefully intoning ‘Mr Peter Bone’ thru an endless Escher-mirror of indicative votes, springtime for little Tommy R as his jolly Nazis go into their dance, springtime for little baa-lambs and the giant orange Trumpkin revving up for 2020, springtime for Mr Zuckerberg and his giant pile of pies, what’s happening in the springtime? JAZZ NIGHT AT THE BEE’S MOUTH, that’s what’s happening bra, where those doughty champions of cool grooves and hot licks known in this corner of the time-space continuum as Luke “Iron Fist” Rattenbury (gtr) and Loz “The Velvet Glove” Thomas (drms) will be weaving a magic carpet of musical vibrations for you to climb aboard and soar high high high into the crisp cool glow of the pellucid cerulean, far above the faint hooting and gibbering of our thwarted elected representatives, the roar of the greasepaint and the smell of the crowd, the well-mannered marching of the marchers and the polite signing of the signers, the busy click and switch of the bots and crawlers gathering up your tired soggy data, working stiffs trying to kick back with a brewski, influencers influencing as griefers go griefing and trollers keep trolling, the whole sorry-ass cavalcade of April fools marching on beyond satire and into history, while beyond the tatty edge of town and the grimy compromised verges the yellow broom lies aflame upon the heath and the hawthorn decks out the resurgent hedgerows, as the voice of the chiff-chaff returns to the echoing woodlands and feather-footed through the plashy fen passes the questing vole… don’t let it bring you down, come and join us, cos you ride on time, ride on time ride ride ride ride on time.